


Second in Command

by depresane



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Evil, Game Spoilers, Gen, Hearing Voices, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Abuse, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Rare Relationships, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depresane/pseuds/depresane
Summary: I don't know how much I'll write because I want to focus on TNTGTN.This is the AU where things go right for Sarevok - and wrong for Faerûn.





	1. Chapter 1

In a vast room illuminated by countless candles, a bald man unfolded a dirty sheet on the turquoise floor. The sight of a decaying corpse brought a weak smile to his face. The sword, the dagger, torn chains of the armour, the shape of hair; it all matched the general look of Gorion’s foster son. The man returned to his seat, rubbed his fingers against his forehead, and looked to his left.  
A mercenary was standing stiff, playing with his hands, waiting.  
“You’re hiding something.”  
“No, sir, I’m _just_ about to tell you…”  
“Very well, then. What is it: are there witnesses? Survivors from his party? Have we lost someone?”  
“The deed… _We_ didn’t do it. There was another warrior. Fully armoured and, uh… There was a sinister aura around them, as if… they were a warlock or… you know, associated with devils…”  
The man nodded, “Where are they now?”  
“Er, Dhanial shall keep you informed, sir. She’s observing them from afar, and there’s a messenger with her.”  
“Ah. That’s enough, you can go.”  
He bowed with relief, “Thank you, sir.”

The corpse was taken to the Undercity and ditched in its ruins.  
“That’s it,” thought the bald man, “That’s your closure, Abdel. How pitiful. You aimed too high and failed to leave a puny scratch.”  
As he turned back and stared at a passage in a wall, his servants and mercenaries walked away and through the gap, leaving him alone. One person refused to go: a Kozakuran woman in full plate armour. He could see her blurred image on the border of his field of view. He sighed and glared at her with his glowing eyes, lacking pupils and irides.  
“Sarevok,” she spoke, tensing her neck and upper back muscles, “you don’t have to hunt the others.”  
“You think so? Not even his murderer?”  
“I’m certain their clash was just a chance.”  
“Your claim’s weakness is that I can adapt is as my counterargument. After all… isn’t your presence here also a chance?”  
She shut her eyes, “They might never cross your path. Just tell Dhanial to retreat.”  
He insisted, “Their power is demonic, and only a god can overpower a demon.”  
“They might never fight you!”  
“That’s not enough for me!”  
She yelled, “Why?! Why would you want to abandon your own humanity?! Why would you want to join gods and leave me here to pray?!”  
He exposed his teeth, “Truly, you are a disappointment.”  
She clenched her fists, “You’re wrong. You’d better remember my words when you find your divine life empty.”  
“Beat it, Tam.”  
She sniffed and marched towards the exit, ready to crush mountains from fury.  
Sarevok frowned for a second.

The servants warned him that Rieltar returned. He requested a sleeping bag, a crate of foreign fruit, and a jug of water.  
It wasn’t the first time he stayed in the Undercity to avoid the merchant. In a sum of all those days, he had cleaned up a temple and reconstructed a path leading to it. He imagined people would have been attending the eerie shrine and dedicating their murders to him. Soldiers, blackguards, militia, assassins, even peasants with their cattle; each kind of murder was worth something.  
Nevertheless, he as a Bhaalspawn had to aim for _the_ murder that would prove him worthy of his goal. He had been planning three such murders: killing Rieltar, eliminating the remaining children of Bhaal, and inciting a mass slaughter in Faerûn. He felt the breath of success on his shoulder; it excited him, but he controlled his own breathing and restored tranquillity within.  
“Wait for the _perfect_ opportunity and settle for nothing less,” he told himself.

Four days passed by; Sarevok showed himself to Rieltar, endured his vocalized knives, and returned to the Undercity to recover.  
Then, a light winked to his right. Someone was sending signals with a pocket mirror and a candle.  
“May I?,” it was the man who has brought Abdel’s corpse.  
He invited him with a broad wave of his hand.  
The man put out the flame and sat in front of Sarevok, “A letter from Dhanial.”  
He took it and read in silence.

_The subject is possibly an orc or a half-orc; ivory pale, long hair, external lower fangs, very short beard. Full armour, black; horned helmet, fashioned after a bull; a skull on his sword and codpiece has long, stylized teeth. A negative aura around him for sure. N O VISIBLE CHARACTERISTICS YOU’RE AFTER. He’s currently at FAI; ordered two different types of wine, mixed them together, and went to his room. I can hear him from the first floor! By Sharess! I am forced to leave my room, thus I conclude this letter._

Sarevok dropped his jaw and his mouth followed.  
“Is something wrong, sir?”  
“Nay. Although…,” he stood up, “I need a horse. Don’t attract anyone’s attention.”

At night as dark as coal, inside a tall tower, Sarevok was donning his armour. He had two sets, and he chose the plain one to hide it with ease beneath a cloak.  
“Ivory pale, long hair, short beard” his thoughts repeated like a mantra.  
“ **Ah, you remembered** ,” he heard a voice in his mind.  
“Of course I did,” he replied, whispering, “ ‘Twas a vivid vision. Impressive as well.”  
“ **Stay cautious. I don’t know the significance of the long-toothed skull.** ”  
“That’s fine. Time will tell.”

The sun was still sleeping under the horizon but the sky turned slightly warm, painting clouds pink.  
Sarevok reached the citadel where the Friendly Arm Inn dwelled. He recognized Dhanial’s green hood as she was squatting and pressing her back against the tall gray stone wall.  
She grumbled, “He did it _again_.”  
He threw his leg over his horse and landed it on the grass, “No one’s kicked him out?”  
“No one dares. His room is on the last floor; can I sleep now? My mind’s all over the place…”  
“Last floor, huh?,” he looked up, ignoring her question, “Tie the horse up somewhere… somewhere legal.”  
“Oh, for ff… Sir?”  
He sprinted upstairs, leaving his brown horse alone.  
“Damn him to all Nine Hells,” she murmured, slowly standing up.

Sarevok ran all the way upstairs.  
“ **He’ll hear you.** ”  
“Good.”  
He started knocking on doors. Various voices answered him; no one opened. The fifth door – silence. He decided to wait.  
A tiny, rectangular plank moved to the side; a pair of dark eyes glared from the room.  
“What,” spoke a deep, hoarse voice.  
Sarevok replied with confidence, “I have arrived to reward you for getting rid of my enemy.”  
The person behind the door had very few eyebrows, so Sarevok had to read the bottom half of his forehead.  
“Which one?,” asked the man.  
“A fighter in chainmail; had a birthmark on his arm, a two-coloured eye…”  
“Hrmm. I didn’t pay attention to his eyes.”  
“Naturally, why should you? He was just a fool, killing stray dogs and gibberlings.”  
“Now that you say it… I did meet a fighter who killed two xvarts and robbed their bodies. Upon noticing me, he chugged a potion and charged at me. No conversation, just an immediate attack. He seemed… unstable.”  
Sarevok nodded slowly, “It was him.”  
“Well. What’s the reward?,” he still kept the door closed.  
“How much is he worth to you?”  
“A hundred. And to you?”  
“Fifty. But I will pay you a hundred.”  
“Show it now.”  
Sarevok detached a leather pouch from his belt and raised it so the man could see it. The man unlocked the door and opened it just a little bit. His hand appeared in the thin gap and retreated when it felt the container lying firmly on the palm. The door closed and Sarevok waited once more.  
“There’s a hundred and _one_.”  
It made no difference to him, “So be it.”  
“Hmmmmrr. Now that this is settled, you can leave.”  
“I could.”  
“Don’t test my patience, human.”  
“Because you’ll get bloody?,” he smirked, “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's shorter 'cause I'm experiencing a blockade again.

A pause that followed Sarevok’s statement didn’t strike him with doubt. The man’s facial expression, as far as he could see, also seemed to be in his favour.  
“What is your name, human?,” he finally asked.  
“Sarevok. I’m a member of the Iron Throne.”  
“Ah, the Throne… I heard about it. Look. I could use some currency and additional help in my personal pursuit. Yet… the Iron Throne… its people are deeply upset with its leaders. I saw them drink their brains out at Jopalin's; heard them talking how they want to leave.”  
Sarevok nodded, “They won’t, though. They know what it would mean.”  
“Perhaps. But I am _able_ to leave, unlike them. I can _face_ what they cannot. I can break every cage, defeat any authority.”  
His eyebrows rose a little, “Indeed, you’re capable of ripping apart the contaminated iron, but a few warriors had commissioned a sturdier armour, enchanted even. They may face me someday.”  
The man grinned, “I tore the Luskan prison asunder. Its columns, enhanced with steel and ankheg shells, turned to dust and useless rocks. Pity you missed the sight.”  
“Huh, I didn’t miss the news, though. ‘Twas you,” impressed Sarevok was close to a whisper; he rose his voice back to its natural volume, “You wish not to serve the Throne and that’s fine. Instead, work for me. I shall pay for your meal, beer, room, and intimate pleasures. I shall lend you my best men and women. All I need is your raw power at my disposal.”  
The door opened again, this time as widely as its hinges allowed. The half-orc matched Dhanial’s description and greatly surpassed Sarevok’s expected image.  
“Write it down,” he demanded.

The hall on the third floor was meant for quiet, civilized meetings, as suggested by luxurious sofas and plain-coloured carpets. Sarevok was leaning on a coffee table. Word for word, he wrote what he promised, just in a formal language. He signed two documents with two Thorass letters, S and V; the man spelled out his name in the Dethek script.  
“How should I refer to you?,” asked Sarevok, strewing dust on the documents to dry the ink.  
“Dorn. I have no titles.”  
“What’s your destination?”  
“The concept of destination no longer exists for me.”  
“Alright, poor choice of a word. After all, you mentioned a «pursuit,» and those don’t have a fixed place, do they?”  
“Only sojourns. And if my latest victims spoke truth, the man I seek should be resting outside Baldur’s Gate.”  
“You mean… on the grass?”  
“Like a bandit he is.”  
Sarevok reclined on the sofa, “How threatening may he be?”  
“Who knows. He has a company, that’s for sure. Spies like yours. They might make… a certain outcome plausible.”  
“Outcome?”  
“A risk.”  
A short exhale left his nostrils, “As much as I adore cryptic speech, I need you to shed your mystic fog just for a moment.”  
Dorn shifted his sight to a painted replica on the wall, “He could find out about my pact.”  
He aaah-d silently, enlightened, “And bring an exorcist along? Or rather… Sign his own?”  
“That’s the exact mystery I’m facing.”  
Still relaxed on the sofa, he pondered and suggested, “Husam could take a peek from the walls.”  
“Are they stealthier than that lass in green?”  
“Much stealthier.”  
“Why have you allowed her to me, anyway?”  
“So I could admit to her participation soon enough.”  
He lifted his chin, “Hmmmrrm.”  
“In fact, you’ve brought it up at a perfect time.”  
Dorn glared at Sarevok with narrowed eyes, “You have not recovered, _Suhv_.”  
“Forsooth, I have yet to recover. Sending a spy takes a greater price than a word.”  
“With me, it could take a sword through your guts.”  
“Aye.”  
Dorn waited.  
“No more stalkers after you. If you see one, even if they’re out of their own initiative, slice me.”  
He still waited.  
“You need a supplement.”  
“Mhmm.”  
Sarevok returned to the table, “Right on it, mister Dorn.”


End file.
